


The Hush of Waiting

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: shackinup_sesa, Getting Back Together, Grimmauld Place, Lie Low At Lupin's, M/M, Shacking Up Secret Santa, ootp-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-01
Updated: 2006-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to make this moment last, and he wants to remember it forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hush of Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Devil Doll and Mousapelli for whipping it into shape, and to angelgazing for listening to me wibble. Written for laurificus, who requested _1\. Grimmauld Place; 2. reconciliation; 3. banter; 4. snow_ in the [](http://shackinup-sesa.livejournal.com/)**shackinup_sesa**. I do it all for you, darlin'.

i.

As Sirius lands Buckbeak in the field behind the cottage, the sky opens and the rain pours down. It's a warm summer rain, and it feels good, heavy droplets running down and leaving clean trails on his dirty skin.

There's a shed with a padlock on the door, and Remus is there, unlocking it.

"I'm not sure he'll want to stay in here," Remus says, bowing to Buckbeak. Buckbeak eyes him disdainfully. "But it's the only place big enough, and he'll be out of the rain."

Sirius nods and attempts to cajole Buckbeak into the shed, which smells of damp earth and old blood.

Lightning splits the sky and the hippogriff rears back with a trumpeting roar. Sirius backs out of the way, slips on the wet grass, and stumbles into Remus. They both hit the ground. Buckbeak ignores them and darts into the shed, out of the rain.

Remus is skin and bone beneath him, sharp angles with nothing of comfort to them, and Sirius thinks he isn't any better, the two of them skeletons rattling around in each other's closets.

The thought makes him laugh.

Remus raises an eyebrow and his mouth quirks in a half-grin. He shakes his head. "Mad as ever," he says, and puts a hand on Sirius's shoulder. Sirius levers himself up before Remus can push him off, unwilling to face that rejection just yet.

He lets Remus lead him into the cottage, which is cozy -- fire crackling in the hearth despite the heat, tea steeping on the stove, yellow chintz curtains brightening the room and keeping the grey day out. There are a few books and a scattering of letters on the kitchen table, but other than that, it doesn't seem like anything of Remus's is there.

"It's my aunt's house," Remus says, as if following his train of thought. He spells the mud from their clothes with a charm. He pushes the books and papers aside and sets down two mugs on the table, then begins pouring the tea.

"The Muggle?"

"The very one." He gestures at the chairs. "Sit, please. Tell me what's going on. I had a very cryptic owl from Dumbledore, and then nothing. Harry's all right?"

"Harry's fine, though it was closer than I'd like." He shivers at the memory of Harry's harrowing tale, and launches into an abridged version as they drink.

Remus goes pale at the mention of Voldemort, knuckles white from clutching his mug, and lets out an involuntary growl at Wormtail's name, but Sirius keeps talking, his voice flat and dry so he can get through the story one last time. In the past week, he's told it more times than he'd ever wanted to, and he feels like that mariner bloke in that poem Remus was always quoting when they were younger. After he tells Remus, he is through.

"You'll stay here until Dumbledore sends for us," Remus says when he's done, and Sirius nods, grateful he doesn't have to ask. "The bathroom is down the hall, to the right. You can clean up," Sirius is suddenly reminded of his dirty skin and matted hair, and the smell of wet dog and hippogriff that clings to him despite Remus's earlier cleaning charms, "and I'll start dinner."

The bathroom isn't large, but it contains an old-fashioned claw-footed tub, a faint ring of rust around the drain, and Sirius thinks it's possible he's died and gone to heaven when he sinks down into the hot soapy water. Quick showers in the houses of people who still thought he was a mad murderer, despite Dumbledore's reassurances to the contrary, had kept him reasonably clean as he traveled, but he hadn't stopped at all in the past two days, traveling only at night so nobody spotted Buckbeak as they flew south.

He's whistling and scrubbing the dirt from beneath his torn fingernails when the door opens and Remus appears. He feels a flicker of self-consciousness -- he's no longer the fit bloke he was fourteen years ago -- but decides he doesn't really care. It's not as if Remus looks any better.

"Just wanted to make sure you hadn't drowned," Remus says. He's carrying a towel and some clean clothes, which he places on top of the hamper.

Sirius laughs. "It'd be just my luck, wouldn't it? Brightest wizard of my year--"

"Except for James," Remus murmurs, but Sirius can't think of James now, not if he wants to avoid breaking, so he ignores Remus and continues cataloguing his exploits.

"Illegal Animagus at fifteen, first ever escapee from Azkaban--"

"Second, if what Crouch Jr. said was true."

He glares at Remus. "I didn't need my mum and dad to help me escape," he says indignantly. Remus bows his head, conceding the point. "Anyway, my point is, drowning in the bath would be an ignominious end for a bright star like me."

Remus laughs, and the sound is as foreign and yet familiar as the hot water against his skin, and twice as cleansing. "It's nice to know your ego is still intact."

Sirius splashes some water at him. "Someone once told me it's not being conceited if it's true."

Remus looks ruefully at his now water-speckled shirt and sits down on the toilet, leaning one elbow upon the sink and resting his chin in his hand. "I wonder who that could have been."

"Pillock." And another splash, which hits Remus around the knees. He remembers a time when Remus would have jumped into the bath with him, clothed or not, for a glorious tussle that led to kissing and sex. Those days are long gone.

He wonders if Remus even misses them.

*

ii.

The house is much as he remembers it, dark and cold and full of shadows. Everything is covered in white sheets and what isn't draped in white is covered in dust. The severed heads of house-elves hang on the wall, malevolent and gross, and Sirius wishes he could light the whole place on fire and walk away.

Of course, he can't. Dumbledore is right, it's the perfect place to hide, and to set up Order headquarters, but he'd much rather be back on his Caribbean island, sleeping on the sand and eating scraps left behind by tourists.

Remus looks around, face shifting between surprise and wariness. "It's, well," he says, apparently trying for tact, "it's very large."

Sirius laughs. "It's monstrous, Moony. It's okay. Didn't I tell you?"

"You did, but--"

"It's ever so much worse in person."

 _It's like something out of a bad Gothic romance,_ Sirius thinks, only this isn't a novel, this was his life for sixteen years, and his family for over six hundred, if never really his home.

They open up all the windows as they move from room to room, airing the place out.

"Do you want this room?" Remus asks, opening the double doors to Sirius's parents' suite.

He was conceived in that bed. He shudders at the thought. "God, no. Buckbeak can live in here."

Remus laughs. "Okay."

A small figure flies out at them from the depths of the suite. "Who is you and what is you doing with mistress's things?" it shrieks.

Remus draws his wand as Sirius stares in shock. "Kreacher?"

"Nasty filthy murdering blood traitor," Kreacher snarls back.

"Go downstairs, Kreacher, and clean the kitchen," Sirius orders, hopes rising wildly -- if Kreacher doesn't obey, the house isn't his after all, and they won't be able to stay.

"Yes, master." With an unhappy hiss, Kreacher disappears.

Sirius sighs in resignation, taking comfort in the warmth of the hand Remus places on his shoulder, and trying to ignore the way the touch makes his stomach do a little flip.

Regulus's room is next, a dusty shrine to his mother's favorite son, her perfect Slytherin boy. His old Cleansweep hangs on the wall over a faded poster of the 1978 Falmouth Falcons, who start dancing for joy when the light from Remus's wand hits them. Heavy black dress robes -- smelling faintly of moth repelling charms -- hang neatly in the closet as if awaiting the return of their owner. The bookshelves are stacked neatly with textbooks and astronomy guides, and Regulus's old telescope stands near the window, pointed at the sky.

Sirius remembers using it to spy on the Muggle kids across the street, trying to watch television through the open curtains on their windows. He remembers a time before he and Regulus were enemies, when he'd come in here because he'd heard Regulus having nightmares, times when Regulus would stand in his doorway, blanket clutched under one arm, waiting for him to wake up and offer protection from the monsters under the bed.

In this house, the monsters were always real.

He shakes his head, and closes the door behind him, leaving the room undisturbed.

"We can make this one up later," he says, and his voice is hoarse. "This is the family wing."

Remus nods. Sirius can't read his face in the shadows.

He takes the six steps down the hall, so familiar even after so many years, and stops before the next grimy, featureless door, the door that opens on his old room. He hesitates for a split second, hand on the silver snakehead doorknob, and takes a deep breath before he pushes the door open. The blue light of Remus's wand plays over walls and shelves that have been stripped of his old things, painted over in grey and green like the rest of the house. The plush carpet underfoot is so dark a green as to be almost black and their footsteps disturb the years of dust collected on it. He's surprised at the anger choking him at the sight of it. His hand itches for a wand to transfigure everything to red and gold, but he settles for falling to his knees and ripping the carpet up with his bare hands, scrabbling at it like he still had paws and was digging in the dirt. He tells himself he can't breathe and his eyes are burning because of the dust rising from the floor in giant puffs.

He's in the middle of the room, holding the half-ripped up carpet in his hands -- nails bloody and torn, hair and skin acquiring a grey coating of dust and dirt -- when he stops and glances over at Remus.

Remus's brow is furrowed and his eyes are sad. He makes a small gesture with his wand. "Do you want me to--"

"Yeah." His voice hasn't recovered. Maybe it never will; maybe his voice, like his freedom, will be stolen by this place, Azkaban redux.

"The wood is fine," Remus says as the carpeting shrivels up into nothingness. He works in silence, and Sirius admires the confidence and sharp economy of his casting. When he's done, the pine planks are burnished to a soft, pale glow. He whitens the walls next, and banishes the heavy drapes covering the windows.

The glass needs cleaning, but Sirius doesn't pay attention to that. He shoves up a sash and sticks his head out the window, sucking down humid air thick with exhaust and the stench of garbage. It still smells better than the stale scent of dust and old magic that permeates the house, along with the vague, lingering hint of his mother's attar of roses perfume.

They move the bed beneath the windows, so he will be able to feel the breeze he can't go out in while he sleeps.

After they finish with his room, he leads Remus to the other wing, and they clean out some rooms for the Weasleys, who will be coming to stay shortly.

When Remus goes out for Chinese that evening, Sirius accompanies him as a dog -- one last stab at pretending to be free -- and Remus doesn't even try to talk him out of it. He waits outside, belly down on the hot pavement, sunning himself and accepting occasional surreptitious petting from passersby.

Back in the house, in the cavernous, cool kitchen Sirius remembers only vaguely, they talk of inconsequential things as they eat out of containers at the clean end of the table. Sirius has forgotten how to use chopsticks, and when Remus laughingly reminds him, rearranging his fingers in the proper formation, he thinks Remus's hands are trembling as much as his are, and their laughter peters out, making the silence uncomfortable.

Remus stands after a few moments of awkwardness. The meal apparently over, he gathers the cartons and turns.

"The icebox is behind you, to the left," Sirius says. "I updated the cooling charms while you were dealing with the boggart in the oven."

Remus nods. They haven't talked about the boggart and Sirius doesn't want to. He's glad Remus dealt with it. He hasn't seen one since he left Azkaban, and he'd like to keep it that way, because he's not sure what he would see, if he'd see anything at all. He thinks he may have already lived through his worst fears, and nothing a boggart could conjure can affect him after seeing James and Lily dead in the rubble and knowing it was _all his fault,_ after watching Peter disappear down into the sewer, after twelve years in Azkaban reliving his worst memories. Then he remembers Minerva McGonagall leading him into Dumbledore's office three weeks ago, and he knows what he would see, and he can't even bear to follow that train of thought to its conclusion, but his brain, always faster than he could control, is there already -- Harry dead on the ground, eyes wide and blind behind broken glasses, history repeating, and _it's all his fault._

He stands abruptly and goes to the door. He steps out into the back garden, shivering, and the languid summer heat takes the edge off his chill. He wishes vaguely for a cigarette, wonders if he can convince Remus to pick up a pack next time he goes out. When he returns to the kitchen, the table is cleared and Remus is wearing a distracted smile that makes him look inoffensive and rather stupid, actually, and Sirius feels a savage urge to wipe it off his face.

"I have some notes to write up for Dumbledore," Remus says, and leaves the kitchen before Sirius can say anything. _He always did have the best survival instincts of us all,_ Sirius thinks. Maybe that's why it was so easy to suspect him in the first place.

Sirius follows him to the library anyway, because there's nothing else to do, and he doesn't want to stir up any more ghosts tonight. He dusts off his father's old chess set and plays against himself for a while; when he gets bored with that, he picks up a book and tries to lose himself in it, but he feels like he's going to jump out of his skin at every creak and sigh the house makes, and even the scratch of Remus's quill against parchment wears on his already frayed nerves.

He stands and stretches. He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep at all, even with the room stripped of his mother's malice, but he may as well make the attempt. They have work to do in the morning.

"Night."

Remus looks up from his bloody parchment and gives him a tired smile. "I'll be up in a bit," he says, and for a brief, shining moment, everything is as it was when they were young, before the world went to hell on them, but it's only a moment, and it's a lie, because now Sirius isn't sure things were ever that right between them, isn't sure the darkness wasn't there all along, and they just chose not to see it, being young and stupid and so certain they would triumph.

He is half undressed when he realizes they haven't sorted out where Remus is to sleep -- at the cottage, there was only the one bedroom and the one bed, which they'd shared as if they were strangers, each clinging tensely to the outer edge, afraid of what would happen should they touch.

"You can sleep next door," he says as Remus comes into his room.

"Okay," Remus says, but he doesn't leave. In fact, he closes the door behind him, and strips off his clothes in silence, folding them neatly and placing them on the chair next to the chest of drawers, his trainers on the floor beneath. Sirius notices Remus's battered old suitcase is sitting in the corner, wonders how he missed it before, but says nothing.

They move around each other in the bathroom the way only people who have lived together for a long time can; even after so many years, he knows Remus always brushes his teeth first and then washes his face, and it is as comforting as it is painful to go through the motions as if the great chasm of their combined betrayal doesn't yawn between them.

They slip beneath the sheet, which still smells of moth repelling charms, and after he blows out the candle, Remus says, "I'll only stay a few minutes." They both know it's a lie, but it's one lie Sirius is willing to accept.

Even after a quick enlargement charm, this bed is smaller than the one at the cottage, and it takes all his concentration not to relax and sprawl out. He can feel the heat of Remus's breath and body, the steady pulse of Remus's heart ( _no, that's my heart,_ he thinks, and then, _Is there a difference?_ ), in the small, warm space of the bed, though again, they are careful not to touch. He wonders if Remus has the same fears he has, that one or both of them will crumble to dust or melt into nothingness under the brush of each other's hands and the feelings they'll provoke. He finds hope in the fact that Remus chooses to sleep here rather than in any of the other rooms, but it is a small hope, forlorn. There is safety in numbers, after all, and it never hurts to be too cautious in this house.

The rain comes late that night, the sky exploding in thunder and lightning, jerking Sirius from his restless sleep.

In the next flash of lightning, he sees Remus lying beside him, dark against the pale linens, sheet wound like a snake around his waist, leaving his upper body bare. He is curled up on his side like a child, one hand lying on the white space between them like an invitation. He wonders for a moment if he should take it.

Another clap of thunder startles Remus awake, eyes wide and white in the dark. The wind blows and Sirius feels a spray of moisture on his skin.

"The windows," Remus says, voice hoarse from sleep. "We've left all the windows open." He makes to rise from the bed, but Sirius stops him, his hand on the warm, bare skin of Remus's shoulder before he can think about it.

"Leave it," he says. "We'll clean it up in the morning."

Remus nods. "I should--" He jerks his chin at the door.

"Yeah," Sirius answers, but he doesn't take his hand away, and Remus doesn't move or shrug him off. "You probably should."

But he doesn't.

As Sirius drifts back into sleep, lulled by the steady sound of rain against the window, the cool feel of it a solace against his dry, touch-starved skin, he's glad.

*

iii.

Once they're settled in, people come and go all the time -- everyone but him, Sirius thinks sourly. It's a regular King's Cross Station, and even his delight at his mother's horror over what use her house is being put to fades as he watches them all go about their business while he must sit and wait and _be a good boy_. Not that anyone actually says that to him, but he can hear it in Molly's voice, in Dumbledore's.

He has never been _a good boy_ , but he does as he's told this one time. He does it for Harry.

He sits by the window overlooking the street or the back garden, peers through Regulus's telescope at the stars, most of them obscured by London's lights and the heavy storm clouds that roll in all too frequently during the summer. He pretends he's not pining for wide, open spaces and the wind in his hair. Buckbeak seems to be the only one who understands, and Sirius spends a lot of time with him, feeding him rats, promising him the sky, soon, even though he knows it's a lie. Buckbeak is as much a prisoner as he is, for even less reason. He feels bad lying to Buckbeak, but at least Buckbeak will never call him on it.

He's glad Remus doesn't lie to him now; he doesn't think he could take it with Buckbeak's equanimity.

He's at the window, daydreaming of freedom, when the thunder and lightning begin. He can practically taste the ozone in the air, longs to feel the rain on his skin when it hits the windowpane in fat drops that stream like tears.

Remus comes in, smelling of wet, green things, hair plastered to his forehead, shabby robes clinging to his skinny frame. Sirius pretends to ignore him in favor of the downpour. He remembers discarded umbrellas, rain-soaked kisses, Remus's face lit with joy to outshine the hiding sun. Over the past year, he has relearned his own history, and now he is susceptible to sudden sharp stabs of joy when he remembers something good, the way he was vulnerable to the pain of having to relive the worst over and over again in Azkaban.

Just now, his chest aches and he can't force any words out, so he sits and waits to see what Remus will do. It's unfamiliar -- when they were young, he was always the one pushing to see how Remus would respond. Now he waits for Remus to push him, and Remus hasn't quite got there yet. Sirius doesn't know if he ever will. Sirius doesn't know if he wants him to.

Remus smiles at him, and the years drop away from his face -- even with the dark smudges under his eyes and the silver threading through his hair, Remus looks like the mischievous Moony Sirius knew and loved. Loves, maybe. He doesn't know about that anymore, either.

"What?" he asks, goaded by envy or anger or Remus's smug smile.

"Brought you a present." Remus produces a long, narrow box imprinted with the name _Ollivander's._

"How--"

Remus shrugs, still smiling. "Apparently, he owes Dumbledore a favor." He holds out the box and Sirius takes it, fingers trembling at the idea of holding a wand again. It's mahogany, eleven inches, whippy. "Dragon heartstring core," Remus says, as Sirius closes his fingers around it. "Just like your old one."

It warms to his palm, sparks unconsciously. "God," he breathes. He has always felt the magic running beneath his skin, in his veins. He has never lost that -- yet another reason to be grateful he's an Animagus (grateful to Remus, but he won't ever say it) -- but the wand focuses it, magnifies it.

He turns and points it at a hideous ebony and silver end table, carved with gargoyles and snakes' heads. The table collapses into kindling and he smiles in satisfaction.

"It'll do," is all he says, words crowded out by long-forgotten feelings, and Remus claps him on the shoulder, pleased.

*

iv.

They dance around each other warily, one step forward, two steps back, and Sirius finds he's reaching the end of his patience. He knows he can never outwait Remus, who has the patience of a stone, who will wait and wait until the right moment has passed and then spend his life regretting it.

Sirius tries not to think about the twelve years of regrets Remus must have piled up behind him. He cares about one regret only, and though he has said he forgives Remus, sometimes the anger builds up inside -- usually when Remus is out and he is stuck inside -- and he wonders yet again how Remus could have left him to rot in Azkaban, could have believed him guilty. He knows he is as guilty, though, and Remus has reason enough to be angry with him, and he wonders if this is all forgiveness really is, this tally of wrongs done and hurts received until it all balances out, knowing they're both just as guilty of the same damned sins and agreeing to act like it doesn't hurt until it actually doesn't.

He goes to the study after dinner one night shortly after the Weasleys arrive, looking for peace and quiet, unused to the bustle of so many people in one place, and needing to recover. Remus joins him on the sofa, a bottle and two glasses in hand.

"Brought you a present," he says with a grin and a shrug, and Sirius wants to be angry that this is becoming a ritual, that Remus thinks he can be bought off, but he has never been able to resist a gift. "It's not much, but--" Remus sets the bottle, an inexpensive tawny port, down on the end table, which is a twin to the one Sirius destroyed with his new wand. "I'd have brought you cigars, too, but nobody smokes anymore." And they both know he couldn't have afforded them, anyway.

After a desultory conversation about the weather in Lisbon (hot and humid, and damn Remus for having a tan to dissipate his usual unhealthy pallor and make his teeth and eyes gleam softly white in the candlelight), which Sirius does nothing to encourage, they drink in silence for a bit.

"I'm not this cheap," he says finally, looking at the label on the bottle, so he doesn't have to see any hurt that may flash across Remus's face, though he wants to hurt him, wants to spark some reaction from him.

"I never thought you were." Remus takes the insult with grace, and Sirius realizes he's heard worse, and that makes him angry, at the world for the way it's treated Remus, but also at himself, for leaving Remus at the world's mercy. Remus looks down into his glass, swirls the wine around in it, and sighs. "You were never easy, either."

 _For you, I was,_ Sirius thinks, but he doesn't say it. He just finishes his port and tips a little more into the glass. It's actually not a bad wine at all, and even something this inexpensive is probably out of Remus's price range. He feels that familiar tightness in his chest again. _I still am_.

Remus puts his glass down. He runs a hand through his hair, and folds one leg beneath him, oddly comfortable in this house of little comfort. He leans forward, one hand cupping Sirius's cheek, thumb tracing the high arch of the bone.

Sirius's heart stops -- for one split second, he think he may actually be having a heart attack -- and then stutters to life again, racing as if it will burst from his chest in some disgusting display of neediness and hope.

Remus says, "Sirius?" and when Sirius opens his mouth to answer, Remus kisses him.

It is hot and wet and awkward; it is his first kiss in fourteen years, and yet as his eyes flutter closed he feels the familiar humming in his veins, all his senses singing.

The warm velvet curl of Remus's tongue against the roof of his mouth, the sweet taste of port, his sudden shortness of breath -- he feels desire unfurl inside him, an ache deeper and fiercer than mere hunger or thirst, one he hasn't felt in far too long. He drops the bottle onto the carpet so he can clutch at Remus's robes, hold tight to this moment, this feeling.

He whimpers against Remus's mouth, and Remus releases him instantly, hands gentle on his face. He thinks Remus may be shaking, but he's not quite sure, because he's trembling himself, aftershocks or precursor to the big one, he doesn't know, but now he wants to find out.

They stare at one another for a long moment, the silence broken by the loud rasp of their breathing and the querulous tick of the grandfather clock. He can see the fine lines radiating out from the corners of Remus's eyes, the silver hair at his temples, the steady pulse beating at the base of his throat. He wants to remember this moment, the start of something after everything else has ended, wants to etch it into his mind, sear it into every molecule of both their skins. The one thing he won't remember later is who moved first, but they both move, meeting in the middle in a bruising kiss that sets fire licking along his veins and need keening low in his belly.

This time when Remus pulls back, Sirius follows him, presses him to the green velvet sofa and covers him with his body. Remus moans into his mouth and thrusts up, hands fisting in Sirius's robes, and Sirius _remembers_ this, but now he's _living_ it again, and though he wants to slow down and savor it, he _can't._ The propulsive beat of blood in his veins, the scrape of stubble against his lips, the taste of sweat on his tongue, drive him on. With shaking hands they shove at each other's robes. His skin is hungry for the feel of Remus's skin against it; he drinks in the sensation when they manage to kick their clothes to the floor, slide of skin and brush of hair, and _oh,_ he'd forgotten those freckles on the underside of Remus's collarbone, three in a line, his own personal Orion's belt, licks at them as if he is tasting the stars themselves.

Remus twists up and Sirius presses down; they slide slick and hard and hot against each other, and words tumble from Sirius's lips for Remus to swallow with his kisses, pleas, prayers, and promises he will utter nowhere else but here, and Remus seems to understand, his hands swearing vows on Sirius's skin with every frantic touch.

His world has narrowed to the breath-stealing tension coiled so tightly inside him he knows he will break when it does, explode into nothingness the way he's always feared. When it happens -- white sparks bursting in the darkness behind his eyelids, body shaking beyond his control, drowning under wave after wave of pleasure he'd forgotten he could feel -- he clings to Remus, close as he can without climbing inside him.

Remus holds him just as tightly. He can feel Remus shuddering and gasping beneath him as he comes, warm and wet over their bellies and thighs.

They curl together, exchanging soft warm kisses, and Sirius wishes they could stay like this forever, but knows they can't.

"Did you lock the door?" he mumbles against Remus's neck. "Or will we be having a visit from Molly or the twins?" He can feel Remus shudder again at that, and this time, not in pleasure.

"Good lord," Remus says faintly, "not the twins." He shifts a little and yawns. "They'd blackmail us until we're old and grey."

Sirius snorts. "We're more than a match for the twins. Could learn a thing or two from us."

"Hmm." Remus is nestling down into the pillows now, already drifting off to sleep. He's wearing a contented smile, and Sirius feels a swell of pride that it's because of him. "Lock the door before you fall asleep."

He means to, but he's comfortable where he is.

*

v.

Harry is with them far too short a time. All too soon, it's September second, and Sirius is home alone -- Remus is off to the wilds of, well, somewhere. Sirius hadn't really listened when Remus told him, too interested in the other things Remus had been doing with his mouth at the time.

When Remus is there, it is all too easy to forget everything else. They spend hours on research, of course, though not quite the research Dumbledore had in mind when he agreed that Remus could stay in England for a week or two. They lie in bed late, relearning each other's bodies and minds, slowly bridging the twelve year gap between them, each new scar and wrinkle an unspoken reminder of what they've lost and could easily lose again. Time is much too precious to waste on research that is utterly beside the point, and they both know it. Their sessions in the study often end with them making out on the couch, though they are careful to lock the door these days. Molly walking in on them once was once too often, and Remus still gives a small shudder whenever Sirius teases him about it.

It is when Remus is away that Sirius finds his current life unbearable. He knows the research he does is nothing more than busywork, a bone the Order throws him to keep him out of their hair, but he does it, because there is the off chance he might find something to help Harry, and Harry is the only thing keeping him from chucking it altogether and lighting out for the South Seas with Buckbeak.

Molly stops by with groceries, but she forgets to bring him coffee, and after two mornings without, he pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt he finds in one of the guest rooms (Bill's, most likely, since Shacklebolt never spends the night; Remus's trousers are always too short), takes some of the Muggle money he knows Remus keeps in his underwear drawer, and heads down to the corner grocery to buy some.

If it weren't so exhilarating to be out of the house, it would be pathetic, but Sirius can't think about that, because the air is crisp and _he is out of the house_. He dances a little jig on the pavement when no one else is around, and promises himself he will do this every day. He ignores the nagging voice in the back of his head telling him it is dangerous. He is Sirius Black. Danger is his middle name. And now that nagging voice, which sounds remarkably like Remus, says, _I thought your middle name was Orion_ , and he decides to stop narrating his life because even when he's not there, Remus plays into his nonsense, and he misses him.

His trip to the grocery goes so well, he repeats it the next day. He goes to the newsagent, buys a Muggle magazine about motorbikes, and a pack of chewing gum.

The third day, it's grey and rainy, so he drapes an old cloak he finds in the hallway closet around his shoulders, grabs an umbrella out of the unspeakably ugly umbrella stand, and walks around the square in the rain. He swings the umbrella like a cane instead of putting it up, enjoying the cold bite of rain against his face, knowing he has a roof and a dry bed to return to whenever he likes. He's soaked to the skin and looking forward to curling up in front of the fire with a cup of hot cocoa and his magazine when he meets Kingsley on the doorstep.

"I was starting to wonder if I'd been chucked out of the Order," Kingsley says, gesturing at the locked door with a self-deprecating laugh.

Sirius unlocks the door and shoves his way inside, dropping the soaked cloak to the floor and shoving the unused umbrella back into the umbrella stand.

They are silent as they walk to the kitchen, and Sirius puts on the kettle to make tea.

When Kingsley opens his mouth to speak, Sirius interrupts him. "I know it was foolish and dangerous."

Kingsley nods. "Then why'd you do it?"

"You've never been in prison."

"No." Kingsley rubs a hand over his scalp. "Look, I can't even begin to--"

"No, you can't."

The kettle whistles and the subject is dropped. Kingsley gives him dispatches for various Order members and discusses the Kestrels' chances of making the playoffs, but Sirius is under no illusions that his transgression will be forgotten.

The next morning, he is woken by Remus's weight tilting the mattress, Remus's lips against his ear. He turns into the kiss, sleepily eager, but then he remembers what happened yesterday, and he shoves Remus away.

"Thought you weren't coming back 'til Sunday."

Remus shrugs. "It was obviously futile."

"Or you were needed here to babysit me." He shoves the blankets away and stands. "Someone has to look after the mad fugitive, make sure I don't do anything stupid."

Remus sits on the bed, arms folded across his chest, head cocked inquisitively. His face is calm. "And did you do something stupid?"

He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. "I've been locked up for months!"

"Because it's safer for you that way."

Sirius is tired of hearing that, is especially tired of Remus saying it. Remus, of all people, ought to know better, ought to _understand_. He remembers striding the earth like a lion, king of all he surveyed, Remus at his side. And now they are reduced to this.

"Safer for me, or for the Order?"

"You know Kingsley is doing what he can," Sirius snorts, but Remus overrides him, "but if someone recognizes you, the game is up. Back to Azkaban with you, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred pounds."

He shivers. "So they send you here to fuck me into acting sensibly?" He gives Remus a slow, appraising once-over, noticing his nostrils are flared and his jaw clenched, savagely glad to finally get a response that isn't calm or patronizing. "You're not that good in bed."

"Yes, I am." He stands, hands closed in fists that he slowly forces open. "And that's exactly what's happening. In addition to being sent to visit my own kind by Dumbledore, I'm whoring myself out for him in order to keep you compliant." He shakes his head, pushes a hand through his hair. "Christ, you're a bastard."

"Why else are you here? Even you could do better than me right now. Look at me, Remus. Look at me." He grabs Remus's shoulders and gives him a shake.

Remus raises his chin and glares. "You're right, I could," he says, and Sirius forces himself not to flinch, "but I choose not to. I want to be here, with you. And I thought you wanted me here. But if that's not the case--"

"Only if you want to be here."

"I just said I did. Are you calling me a liar?" Remus's voice is rough, edged with anger, and Sirius feels a small sense of triumph at goading him into it.

Sirius closes his eyes, and thinks they could be standing in their old flat. He wonders if anything's changed at all and he wants to believe it has. He loosens his grip on Remus's shoulders, slides his fingers along the jut of Remus's clavicle and enjoys feeling his breath hitch at the touch.

"Maybe I was doing something important for the Order," he says mulishly. It's the closest he'll come to apologizing, and they both know it. He bends his head to kiss Remus.

"Ah, yes," Remus says against his mouth, low heat now, but no more anger. "I'm sure Dumbledore has a pressing need for a motorbike magazine filled with photos of half-naked girls."

"Git." He pushes Remus down onto the bed and climbs on top of him. "I'll pay you back."

"No need." Remus slides his lips along Sirius's temple. "What's mine is yours and all that."

As he lets Remus kiss him out of his sulk, he finds he wants to believe that's true.

*

vi.

Sirius lies in the dark feeling sorry for himself, one arm dangling off the edge of the sofa, the other across his eyes to block out even the slightest hint of light. He hasn't been sleeping much, and while he doesn't mind it so much when Remus is around to distract him, Remus has been gone for five days and will likely be gone for three more. It makes the days long and the nights longer, with little to break them up but visits from other Order members who try to pretend they're not uncomfortable when they're here, that the house doesn't give them the creeps. That he doesn't make them nervous.

The weather has been atrocious lately. He's glad to have some outside circumstance keeping him inside; Remus will be less indulgent the next time he rebels (and there will be a next time; there always is), though he knows in the end, Remus will forgive him. Remus always does. Perhaps he takes advantage of that fact. He certainly did when they were younger.

All day, the rain has lashed against the windows and the wind has howled like a starving wolf, but it's quiet now, and Sirius feels sleep sneaking up on him. He holds very still, so as not to scare it away.

"Sirius! Sirius!"

The door swings open and light flares, bright enough that he can see its edges on the backs of his eyelids, even with his arm over his face. Sleep flees, and Sirius sighs.

"Wake up, you lazy sod," Remus says, shaking him. Something cold and wet drips onto his cheek, and he snaps to a sitting position, his head nearly colliding with Remus's.

Remus is smiling down at him as if it's Christmas morning, and even with the purple smudges under his eyes, he looks ten years younger. There's more white in his hair than there was five days ago and--

"It's _snowing_ ," Remus says breathlessly, grabbing his hands and hauling him up. "Come on." He drags Sirius down the hallway and throws his scarf and boots at him.

"I thought you weren't back until--"

Remus's smile turns fierce. "I am no longer welcome amongst my brethren in Bavaria."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. It's just frustrating." They share a glance and Sirius knows Remus understands. He pulls his boots on awkwardly, hopping from one foot to the other, and then swathes the scarf around his neck and grabs a coat from the closet.

Remus pulls him towards the door and he stops for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"No one ever has to know," Remus answers, smile widening into a broad grin.

This is the Remus he remembers, and he feels more like himself than he has in weeks as they stumble out of the house in a hurried tangle of arms and legs, more awkward schoolboys than grown men.

The streetlamps cast an odd orange glow over everything as the snow swirls quietly to the ground. They are the only ones out at the moment, and the street is hushed, as if waiting for something. For them.

Remus wraps the ends of Sirius's scarf around his hands and pulls him close for a kiss. Sirius closes his eyes and breathes in. Snow is slipping between his scarf and his skin, giving him a chill, and Remus's nose is cold, but his mouth is warm and fierce. He has been waiting too, Sirius thinks, waiting for this moment, this feeling, the intersection of hope and freedom, lost for so long but never forgotten. He wants to make this moment last, and he wants to remember it forever.

end


End file.
